


real pretty, pretty little thing

by orphan_account



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, PWP, Rough Sex, Top Tyrell, sex under the influence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 21:57:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4409300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Elliot's almost lost track of how long it's been since he got fired from Allsafe. But that's a lie - he has a text file on his laptop telling him the exact length of time. Right now, the counter's at 33. (Technically, the exact time is 32 days, fifteen hours and 1 minute - Gideon called him into his office at 8:01 a.m. a month and a day ago, and it's 11:02 p.m. now.) Krista would tell him that this is obsessive behavior. Luckily, Krista is still under the impression that Elliot is gainfully employed. It's probably counterintuitive to lie to your therapist as much as Elliot does, but he hates seeing her worried.</i>
</p>
<p>AU one-shot set before/during "hellofriend".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title from "nice and slow" by usher.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: i have no beta and put this out in like 2 days after watching 1.5 episodes of mr. robot, so sorry if it's absolute shit. concrit in comments is appreciated.  
> may continue this au in the future if anyone's interested, but i also have 5 shitty wips to finish, so we'll see.

Elliot's almost lost track of how long it's been since he got fired from Allsafe. But that's a lie - he has a text file on his laptop telling him the exact length of time. Right now, the counter's at 33. (Technically, the exact time is 32 days, fifteen hours and 1 minute - Gideon called him into his office at 8:01 a.m. a month and a day ago, and it's 11:02 p.m. now.) Krista would tell him that this is obsessive behavior. Luckily, Krista is still under the impression that Elliot is gainfully employed.

It's probably counterintuitive to lie to your therapist as much as Elliot does, but he hates seeing her worried.

Elliot had gotten a week and a half of severance pay, which mostly went towards his latest morphine re-up; and the money he had saved up was enough for food, but not enough for rent in the city. He could have stolen it, of course; hacked a high profile company or two and lived pretty comfortably for a while. But that would have left a trail, and Elliot hates trails. Instead, he'd been saved by a stroke of luck: Shayla came down with mono, and starting a couple days after he'd officially left work, she was too sick to deal. 

She'd stumbled into his apartment with a slurred, " _Elliot_ " and a ragged Target bag full of enough assorted illegal substances to keep Manhattan high for a month, along with a helpful crumpled list of what went to who for how much. He'd freaked out at first, of course - Elliot's apartment is kind of his sanctum, as dumb as that sounds; undisturbed but for the humming of his computers and the occasional, ill-advised hook-up. But once he'd managed to figure out what she wanted, and that she was genuinely ill instead of just high off her ass, it had seemed like a relatively straightforward favor. 

Elliot was good at helping people out, as long as he didn't have to interact with them too much. He'd left Shayla in bed with a couple Ibuprofen, a moldy cough drop and a glass of water, and dealt drugs for her until she was feeling well enough to stand again (about a week). It hadn't been too bad, really: most of Shayla's clients were too strung out to be talkative, and it had given him something to do besides staring at computer screens and sinking into neuroticism. (Krista's new boyfriend was giving him a bad feeling, but Elliot wanted to save that hack for a really desperate day. With Krista's taste in men, ignorance was usually bliss.)

He works a different part of the neighborhood now. Shayla had set him up with some of her suppliers, with a benevolent smile and a warning not to intrude on her turf. He still gets his morphine from her, for sentimental reasons mostly. Elliot has plenty of his own clients now - partly because he checks all his shit for purity, but mostly because he doesn't really care how much it sells for, as long as he can pay back his suppliers and still have enough for rent and food for him and Querty.

It's been a pretty slow evening so far, and Elliot's about ready to settle in against the wall with his phone (he'd learned early on that more people solicited drugs from a guy who looked like he was waiting nonchalantly than one coding in the street. They were less likely to steal it, too) when he notices a man watching him from the end of the alley.

The guy is white; he has slicked-back blond hair and sharklike blue eyes, and he's wearing a dark grey suit that's much too nice for this neighborhood at this time of night. Elliot thinks fleetingly of Patrick Bateman. The man doesn't look like a cop, but he doesn't look like someone who does the kind of drugs that Elliot deals, either, so the look he's shooting is probably just casual interest. Elliot decides to ignore him unless he approaches, and opens up a game of AngryBirds.

Five minutes later, Elliot has gotten tired of his game, and Pat is still staring at him. It's starting to creep Elliot the fuck out. He has two options in dealing with this guy, he knows: confront him, or wait until he loses patience and goes away. Waiting him out is infinitely preferable, but confrontation is more likely to work.

Confront it is, then. Elliot squares his shoulders, hitches his backpack up onto them, and walks over to the guy.

"What do you want?" he says finally.

The man's expression is polite, but distant. Inquisitive. "Pardon?" he says, faux-casually. His voice is accented: hard _R_ s, long _A_ s and sibilant _S_ es point to something Scandinavian, but Elliot can't be sure.

He fiddles with the straps on his backpack. "You're looking for something. I have pot, X, morphine--"

The man smiles crookedly. "Oh, I'm not looking for anything like that, thank you." But he doesn't move away.

"Then what do you want?" Elliot says, getting nervous now, trying to mask it. He snorted his last line a couple hours ago, and is still pretty high, but it's fading fast. "Listen, if you're a cop, I can--"

The smile widens. Elliot doesn't like it much. It's... predatory, is probably the right word.

"No," the man says, as if the idea amuses him, "I'm not a cop." He steps leisurely towards Elliot until they're barely a hair's breadth from each other. "I think you know what I want from you,  _ljuvlig,"_ he says, like a secret.

 "No," Elliot says, "um, I'm sorry, but I don't do... that. You could try the guys over by the corner," he says, feeling his face prickle with an unwelcome flush. 

The man smiles. "But I don't want the guys by the corner," he says, expression maddeningly steady. "I want you."

Elliot steps backwards towards the alley wall, trying to get away from the man's eyes and his heat and his body's own maddening reaction. The man follows him.

"I can make it worth your while," he breathes. And his grey-blue eyes are so intent, and he smells so musky and alluring, and enough of Elliot's grey matter is still caught up in the morphine haze that he breathes, "Yeah, okay," into the space between them, instead of the " _Hell, no_ ," he probably should. The man's eyes flash with victory, and he backs away from the wall just enough to let Elliot out. He snatches one of Elliot's wrists in a vice-like grip and leads him down to the sidewalk, signaling for a cab with his free hand. One shows up within a few minutes.

"The Waldorf, please," he says smoothly to the cab driver, tugging Elliot deftly in to the back seat behind him. The cabbie nods, and it's about all Elliot can manage to swing his backpack off and put his seatbelt on before they're rolling, forty miles per hour through the streets of Manhattan. 

"By the way," the man says casually, ( _he still hasn't let go of Elliot's wrist_ ) "my name is Tyrell." Elliot doesn't know what to say to that, so he just nods, mouth slightly open.

 An excruciatingly long period of time passes silently in the heat of the cab before they finally pull up in front of the nicest hotel Elliot's ever seen. He gapes a bit, taking in the view. Tyrell smiles at his awkwardness as though it's something endearing and hands some neatly-folded bills to the cab driver, before getting out of the taxi and walking over to the curb. He opens Elliot's door for him and draws him out, one pale hand fitting comfortably back around Elliot's wrist.

They get plenty of curious glances as they stride through the hotel lobby - if an impeccably dressed blonde man with no suitcase isn't especially notable in a place like this, Elliot, with his backpack, darting eyes, and ratty black sweatshirt, definitely is. Tyrell pulls him gently up to the front desk across from a bored-looking posh woman. She's on the phone, but still manages to give Elliot an impressive sideye while she finishes her conversation and makes a couple notes on her computer.

"What can I help you with, sir?" she asks Tyrell flatly. He smiles at her.

"I'd like a room, please."

"Do you have a reservation with us, sir?" she asks, and he shakes his head.

"I'm afraid not. May I speak with your manager for a moment?" Her disinterested expression deepens into incredulity.

"Sir, you have to understand that-." A middle-aged man seems to spot Tyrell from the other end of the counter and sashays over, a glint of recognition in his eye.

"Mr. Wellick!" he says accommodatingly, pushing the younger woman to one side before wordlessly commandeering her computer. "What can I help you with today?"

Tyrell smiles. "Hallo, Andreas. I don't suppose you have a room for me?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Elliot's fucked girls who like him to eat them out, slow and careful, before he finally slides inside them. He's fucked girls like Sheila who like to be on top, ride him until they're both a quivering mess of exhaustion, and other girls, who like to be held down. He's never fucked a guy, though. He wonders if Tyrell will want to be on top, like Sheila; will want to fuck him properly. Probably he will. Elliot is good at reading people (I look for the worst, he thinks he told Krista once), and Tyrell is the kind of man who needs control. Not wants it, but needs it, like a fish needs water. Like Elliot needs morphine._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> my first porn! *throws confetti dubiously*  
> disclaimer: i've never been to the waldorf astoria, so all i know about it is what i can find online. sorry!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know, i just feel like tyrell would be really liberal with terms of endearment around elliot since he tries to gain his approval so much...  
> btw this is tyrell & elliot's hotel room: http://www.waldorfnewyork.com/the-towers/rooms-and-suites.html  
> 

Andreas smiles. "Of course, Mr. Wellick," he says, smoothly accommodating, before disappearing again behind the desk, leaving the disgruntled woman to her computer. She just stares at him, brows creased, until the oily-looking man comes back, carrying a key card and glancing insinuatingly between Tyrell and Elliot.

"Your usual," he says, handing Tyrell ( _Mr. Wellick,_ apparently) the card.

"Thank you," Tyrell says, smiling his same neutral smile. "You have my card on file."

"I certainly do," Andreas says, chuckling. He winks at Elliot before disappearing again behind the counter, and Elliot feels a brief moment of hot, flooding shame before he's being tugged proprietarily over to the closest elevator. Tyrell's hand is cold, and smooth, and perfectly manicured, but it tugs Elliot's wrist with a barely contained, impatient strength. Elliot studies him out of the corner of his eye as they wait for the engraved silver door to slide open - his small bowed mouth, the hard curve of his jaw,  - and tries to imagine having sex with him.

It won't be too hard, probably; Tyrell is attractive, and attentive, and seems almost obsessively focused on making Elliot comfortable. Then again, there's an element of repressed violence about his person; the way he holds himself is so careful, like he's carefully suppressing something almost primal. He might be rough, might hold Elliot down and fuck him hard until he cries, or screams. Elliot ignores the hot flash this idea sends to his stomach, resists the urge to palm his own crotch; it's an aberration, that's it. Fast and rough have never really been Elliot's style. When he does have sex, which isn't very often - the temporary release of orgasm isn't usually enough to tempt him into interacting with people- he likes it to be slow; languorous. Sex is kind of like programming; he needs time to gather data before he can figure out what exactly the situation needs.

Elliot's fucked girls who like him to eat them out, slow and careful, before he finally slides inside them. He's fucked girls like Sheila who like to be on top, ride him until they're both a quivering mess of exhaustion, and other girls, who like to be held down. He's never fucked a guy, though. He wonders if Tyrell will want to be on top, like Sheila; will want to fuck him properly. Probably he will. Elliot is good at reading people ( _I look for the worst_ , he thinks he told Krista once), and Tyrell is the kind of man who needs control. Not wants it, but _needs_ it, like a fish needs water. Like Elliot needs morphine.

Men like that want to take, want to feel like they own things. Like whoever they're with belongs to them, not just for the moment but indelibly, permanently. The elevator doors slide open with a slick, metallic sound, starting Elliot out of his train of thought. He steps in first this time, not wanting to be tugged along like a reluctant dog. Tyrell follows in behind him, pulled by his own hand on Elliot's - his eyes are widened a bit, in something like pleased surprise, but he doesn't say anything, content just to look.

The ride up to the 30th floor is quiet but charged. Tyrell is studying him, eyes intent; one moment on the line of his neck, the next lingering on the curve of his ass. When the doors slide open, they both get off at the same time. Tyrell stops them two or three doors down from the elevator; slides his key card through the scanner and opens it quickly, beckoning Elliot proprietarily inside.

The door clicks shut as Elliot is busy gaping at the room. It's bigger than Elliot's studio, white walls paneled with gold. It has two enormous, half-covered windows, a wall of books, and a fucking _fireplace_. There's a sumptuous-looking red leather couch against the far wall, and the biggest bed Elliot's ever seen. The bed he's going to be having sex with Wellick on. Jesus. 

"I didn't ask for your name," Tyrell says silkily, almost apologetic. He's moved to stand directly next to Elliot without making a fucking noise, and now he's  looking at him in a way that's almost a question.

 _Shit_. "Um, I'm... Ollie," Elliot says roughly.

Tyrell raises an eyebrow. 

"Ollie?" he says, disbelieving.

"Elliot."

"That's better," Tyrell says, smiling. He walks over to the couch and perches on one edge as he unlaces his perfectly-polished shoes. "Would you strip for me, please, Elliot?"

Elliot tries not to look at Tyrell as he unzips his sweatshirt and slides off his shirt. He's acutely conscious of his morphine-skinny frame, and his nipples are starting to go hard in the artificial chill of the hotel's AC. He turns to look at Tyrell almost inadvertently once his shirt is for, looking for some kind of approval or disgust. The blonde's eyes are dark, and they're focused unflinchingly on Elliot. Tyrell is still wearing everything except his jacket, which is folded neatly over the side of the couch, and his shoes and socks, set neatly under the table.

"Take your pants off," he says, inflection guttural, yanking his tie off with one savage motion and starting to unbutton his crisp white shirt. Elliot complies, first bending down to take off his shoes as quickly possible, throwing them off into a corner of the room and following them as an afterthought with his ragged socks. He undoes the four buttons of his fly fumblingly, and pulls his jeans down and off with an awkward little shimmy.

And suddenly his pants are off in the corner of the room and there's nothing between him and Tyrell's searing gaze but his flimsy pair of black boxers, which do nothing to disguise the shape of his half-hard dick. Elliot curls his fingers uncertainly in the wristband, knowing Tyrell will want them off but unwilling to slide off his last defense while Tyrell is still mostly clothed.

From the couch, Tyrell makes a noise of frustration deep in his throat, and a second later he's _there, fuck_ , almost on top of Elliot, and his slim, strong body is pressing Elliot back into the side of the bed. Tyrell's button-down shirt is off now, and his fly is undone, but he's still in his pants and undershirt, and their fabric rubs roughly against Elliot's bare skin where they're pressed together.

"You're so hot," he breathes, accent hot in Elliot's ear, and suddenly, longer, smoother fingers are replacing Elliot's in the wristband of his boxers. "And so _frustrating_ ," the fingers are tugging the boxers down now, down enough that they pool at Elliot's feet and he's utterly, completely naked. He's entirely hard now, with no way to hide it from Tyrell's cool eyes and his long, probing hands, seconds away from dribbling precum all over Tyrell's nice pants. 

Tyrell seems to be able to tell, somehow, and he draws away from Elliot, shucking off his pants and briefs and pushing all but one of the plush pillows off the bed.

"Push back the covers and get on the bed, Elliot," he says almost conversationally, composure firmly back in place as he strides over to the bedside table.

Elliot complies, mouth dry, and settles stomach-down on the bed, knees against the sheets so his ass is canted slightly in the air. To distract himself from the awkward pose, he turns his head to the side and watches as Tyrell slides the bedside table's drawer smoothly open. Inside the Gideon Bible there is a foil-wrapped condom, and next to it sits a small, clear bottle of lube. He smiles; not a quick grin but a quick twist of the lips, in a way that suggests this is not entirely unexpected. Elliot wonders fleetingly how many people Tyrell has taken to this hotel, before shutting down the train of thought abruptly. It's better not to wonder.

He's just doing this for money on a slow drug night, that's all. There don't need to be any feelings involved.

The mattress dips behind him and Elliot can feel breath gusting lazily over his back. 

"How pretty you've laid yourself out for me, _älskling_ ," Tyrell says, trailing one of his long, clever fingers down Elliot's perineum to his asshole.

"Tell me, what would you like me to give you first?"

Elliot's never been fucked before, but he knows how this kind of think works, so he grits out, "Fingers."

"Hmm," Tyrell says noncommittally, "what do we say, dearest?"

" _Please_."

 Elliot is still staring at the mattress beneath him, but behind him he can hear the _pop_ of the lube bottle as it opens. Seconds later, the finger is back, but it's colder and slick now, coating Elliot's ass in lube as it trails around the puckered hole. Tyrell sinks his finger in slowly, giving Elliot time to adjust before pushing it in another knuckle, but it still hurts. It's almost all right, though, and Elliot's starting to adjust when another slick fingertip presses against his hole, sinks in to the first knuckle. He moans in pained protest as his erection starts to flag, but soon both fingers are all the way in and they're rubbing around inside of him, scissoring apart and back together, moving in small circles as if searching for something.

"Shh," Tyrell is murmuring behind him, "shh, shh, love, it will be better soon, I promise."

And _oh, fuck,_ his fingers have found Elliot's prostate, and a jolt of pure pleasure shoots through his stomach, enough to have him rutting back against Tyrell's hand like some sort of animal. The jolt comes again, and again; Tyrell is massaging his fingers over the spot. Tears of overstimulation are forming in Elliot's eyes, and he thinks, borderline frantically,  _shit, I don't want to come like this_.

He has just enough presence of mind to grit out, "Fuck, please,  _fuck me_ ," still grinding helplessly back onto the hand, and he hears a sharp intake of breath behind him.

" _En minut,_   _älskling,_ " Tyrell says. His voice is low and gravelly now, and he sounds as if he's speaking through gritted teeth. "One more finger first, that's a good boy."

Elliot moans in protest, grinding himself back onto Tyrell's hand as far as he can in an effort to get his fingers off that fucking spot, but Tyrell just puts his left hand on Elliot's back, holding him, as he nudges a third slick finger in with his right. It's so much, and Elliot feels so full, and he fucking knows he's going to come soon if Tyrell doesn't stop this soon, that Elliot presses his face into the mattress and fucking  _sobs_. _  
_

He can feel Tyrell's hand on his back, but it's so far away, and he's murmuring something comforting but Elliot's senses are too maxed out to even try to understand it.

When Tyrell finally, finally pulls his fingers out, Elliot feels suddenly and unbearably empty.

"Your dick-" he says pleadingly, until a hand presses down on his back in warning.

" _Ha tålamod_ ," Tyrell says, sounding out of breath. "I need to get the condom on first, darling."

Twenty excruciating seconds later he's back, nudging at Elliot's hole with something hot and slick and much bigger than a finger.

"Let me know if I need to pause," he says tersely.

Tyrell sinks in bit by bit, inexorably but too slowly

"Faster," he mutters, "please," and Tyrell's fingers clench suddenly in his sides.

"Are you sure?" he says, with effort. "It will hurt."

"I know," Elliot pants. "Do it."

Tyrell shoves into him like a battering ram. He's right, it does hurt, but it's better than the slow, sliding push of before, less maddening. His first thrusts are a slow, sliding in-and-out, until Elliot whines and shoves his ass backward, biting his teeth in the pillow to guard against any more unwelcome sounds.

Tyrell asks "Are you sure," again, but this time it's different; less like talking and more like a growl, like he's barely repressing himself.

Elliot nods frantically into the pillow, which Tyrell must interpret as a yes because all of a sudden his thrusts speed up like a jackhammer, pounding mercilessly up into Elliot's ass.

And fuck, that's it, Tyrell's dick has found his prostate and he's pounding away at it like he was before with his fingers, and it's fucking transcendental. Elliot's cock is dribbling precum everywhere, and his ass clenches in involuntary rhythm with Tyrell's thrusts. He's so close, he can feel it, and the orgasm is building in Elliot's gut until one of Tyrell's hands reaches around and pinches, viselike, around the base of his dick. _  
_

Elliot makes a broken noise into the pillow and wriggles his ass backwards pleadingly, but the hand doesn't go away.

"Say my _name_ ," Tyrell is saying, panting, driving himself viciously into Elliot's prostate with one hand still wrapped around the base of Elliot's cock.

Elliot's brain almost shorts out, and all he can manage, turning his head sideways away from the pillow, is,

"T-tyrell, oh, fuck. I want  _more_."

That seems to be enough, because Tyrell releases his hand in favor of draping himself fully over Elliot's back, sinking his teeth into Elliot's neck as he keeps hammering away inside him.

 And he keeps biting, and keeps pounding, and suddenly come is shooting out of Elliot's dick so hard that he can't help but clench back on the sensation, and Tyrell makes a shocked sound behind him and bites  _deeper._

Elliot can feel the hot rush of Tyrell's come through the condom, and he moans and clenches down harder, knowing distantly that this will feel good for Tyrell but mostly just wanting it, wanting to hold all that come inside him, feel it dribble down his thighs for the rest of the day.

Soon the rush subsides, and Elliot lies limp, shuddering with aftershocks of pleasure, as Tyrell pulls out of him, fumbling to tie off the condom. He feels the bed shift as Tyrell gets out of it to throw out the condom and wash his hands, but can't bring himself to do much more than make a brief noise of disappointment and roll over to his side.

When Tyrell comes back, he strips the dirtied sheet off the bed from under Elliot, and lies down on the remaining one curled around him, pulling the blankets up to cover their bodies as their sweat cools and the AC begins to bite again. 

He can get paid later, Elliot thinks fleetingly. Right now, he just wants to sleep.

***

"Was that your first time, with a man?" Tyrell asks afterward, running his fingers idly through Elliot's hair. He must see something in Elliot's expression that confirms his guess, because he nods, looking satisfied, and bends his head down to bite at Elliot's ear. "Don't worry, älskling," he says, "it won't be the last."

**Author's Note:**

> of course tyrell takes elliot to a super fancy hotel for their one-night-stand. it's ~elliot,~ after all
> 
> a final note to anyone who made it through this whole thing: bless you all, my friends. go forth and write some morally dubious tyrelliot smut, goshdangit!


End file.
